


heartlines

by orphan_account



Series: young adult friction [4]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Convenience store!AU, Domestic Violence, F/M, Gen, Grantaire works at the corner shop, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, adults playing board games, and watching children's movies, as you do in university
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-05 22:35:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don’t know each other. They’re not friends.</p><p>So what is he doing?</p><p> </p><p>(Or: Grantaire works down at the corner shop, a university drop-out headed apparently nowhere in life, and Enjolras finds himself drawn despite it all.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. and i've seen it in the flights of birds, i've seen it in you

Enjolras runs. He runs out of the door as fast as his feet can take him, not even bothering to grab a jacket. And all the while, his brain is telling him how ridiculous all of this is.

_You don’t even know him Enjolras, you don’t owe him anything you don’t even know his name…_

He only runs harder.

He reaches the café just as it’s closing, and runs headfirst into someone coming out of the door.

“Jesus Christ, could you look where you’re going-”

Enjolras looked up. There’s a young woman standing, looking down at him with an expectant look. She has brown hair and a tanned face, and he feels like he’s seen her before, but he couldn’t recall where.

“Oh my god. It’s _you_. You’re the guy who bought the sprite that day.”

Enjolras blinks, and suddenly he sees; the woman who was working the till the day he tried unsuccessfully to find R again.

“Wait, you remember every single one of your customers?”

She sniffs, “Of course not. Only remember you because Grantaire’d been drunk and chewing my ear off through the early hours of the morning, talking about a resident _Apollo_ living in our neighbourhood. And judging by your face, that's you. I swear to God, one day I’m going to stop taking the morning shifts when he has the night shift before mine, because I can’t do without any more sleep-”

She breaks off and peers down at Enjolras.

“You’re a complete bastard, you know. I don’t even know your name and I know that you’re a bastard.”

“Yes,” Enjolras stammers, “I know.”

“I’d say don’t go near him, because from what I can tell you’re gonna be nothing but heartbreak and he’s had to deal with his fair share of shit in his life already, but…” she reaches into the bag at her shoulder and pulls out a notepad, the kind waitresses use. _So she also works here?_ Enjolras thinks, but his thoughts disappear when she presses a torn piece of paper into his hand.

“He’s in the top apartment, I’m on the bottom, and I can’t even believe I’m saying this but go to him. He waited for you. He doesn’t even _know_ you and he fucking waited for you. So the least you can do is go and apologize.” She slings the bag further over her shoulder and starts off down the road.

“Wait!” Enjolras calls, “where are you going?”

“Off to see my good-for-nothing boyfriend!” she calls back, before whirling round to face him. “Look, I don’t really know you, and I don’t give a crap what your name is, but if you hurt Grantaire in any way, I’ll break your face.”

“Oh,” says Enjolras, “uh… thanks?”

 

* * *

 

He sets off for the address she had written down, cold wind biting and sending his skin into gooseflesh. His phone goes off.

 **Combeferre:** you alright? you suddenly set off somewhere and didn’t tell anyone where.  
 **Enjolras:** I’m fine. I have something to do.  
 **Combeferre:** alright. be careful though.

He eventually caves in and hails a cab, because Grantaire’s place is a little too far to walk at this time of night, and his shoulders feel like ice. He aimlessly watches the dark streets pass through the dirty window, and thinks about Grantaire. Grantaire. So that's his name. It seems to suit him, and explains why he signs things R, at least.

The driver pulls up outside a tall apartment complex building, and Enjolras gets out, peering cautiously. It's the sort of place he used to live in with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, back in Paris. There's garbage littering the street, what appears to be an old sofa against one wall, and graffiti everywhere.

He stops for a moment to look at it. Most of it's the usual unintelligible scrawlings in spraypaint, but there is one picture that catches his eye. It's done entirely in black, and showed the silhouette of a man standing on what appeared to be a hill, holding up a completely coloured-in flag. Is it a radical political statement or just that the artist didn’t have any other colour paints? Enjolras isn’t sure.

He goes up the stairs carefully, racking his mind for something to say. He barely knows this man, but here he is, at his apartment at night, going to apologize for missing a… a what? It certainly wasn’t a date, and it wasn’t even a real meeting. They don’t know each other. They’re not friends.

So what is he doing?

He stops in front of the door. There is an almost hole near the bottom, about shoe sized, and Enjolras nudges it with his sneaker cautiously, before tapping twice curtly on the door, as he can’t see a doorbell.

He waits for a good ten seconds before the door swings abruptly inwards, revealing a very dishevelled Grantaire, dressed in loose pyjama pants and an old Green Day t-shirt. Grantaire’s brows furrow in confusion, before he sighs.

“You bumped into Éponine, didn’t you?”

“Was that her name? She didn’t tell me. Just said that she would break my face.”

Grantaire scowls, before holding the door open wider for Enjolras to come in, “I want to break your face.”

“I suppose I would feel the same, if I were in this circumstance.”

“So why are you here?”

Enjolras stops, “To apologize, obviously.”

Grantaire crosses his arms, “But why? I mean, it’s not like we know each other. You’ve already told me; something came up and you had to deal with it. No big deal. Why would you put a convenience store worker you don’t even know above the needs of your friends?”

Everything he was saying makes complete sense, but Enjolras winces nonetheless.

“Because I had already agreed to meet you, and it was wrong to just forget?”

Grantaire laughs, “You can’t get angry at yourself for forgetting. That’s just illogical. Besides, if I were in your shoes I’d probably do the same.”

“Ow. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“So… uh, nice place you’ve got here,” Enjolras manages, after an awkward silence.

“I don’t even know your name,” replies Grantaire, ignoring Enjolras completely.

“What?”

“I don’t know your name. You know mine, ‘Ponine must have told you, but I don’t know yours.”

“Oh. It’s… it’s Enjolras.”

There iss a pause, and then Grantaire says quietly, “'course it is.”

“What do you mean, 'course it is'?”

“ _En-jol-ras_. It’s so… _you_.”

“You don’t even know me, how can you decide that?”

“I know enough about you.”

Enjolras crosses his arms, mimicking Grantaire. “We met literally about a week ago at a convenience store, and you were drunk at the time.”

“I remember more when I’m drunk than when I’m sober.”

“That’s pathetic.”

“So is my existence.”

Enjolras unfolds his arms, “that’s daft. No one’s existence is pathetic.”

Grantaire throws out his arms and gestures around his apartment, which is, Enjolras admits to himself, not in the best shape, “Look at this. And there’s that massive fucking dent in the door.”

“Yeah, I was wondering about that…” Enjolras trails off.

“Éponine’s dumbass boyfriend. He was drunk one day and beating her 'round, so I took her up here and wouldn’t let him in. Nearly beat down the door before I threatened to call the police, because there’s no way I could take him on. He disappeared after that, but then 'Ponine beat _me_ because she doesn’t want to get the cops involved in any way, shape or form.”

Grantaire stops, aware of Enjolras’ incredulous stare. “What? Never had to deal with your best friend’s drunk boyfriend in the middle of the night? Wouldn’t be surprised anyway, you practically _reek_ of middle-class wealth. I bet you’re that person who buys orange juice with pulp in it.”

“That’s not true, you know,” says Enjolras indignantly, although he does actually buy orange juice with pulp in it but that is _irrelevant_.

“Oh really?”

“Yeah. If you got to know me you’d realise that.”

Grantaire smiles, a toothy, slightly crooked smile, but it works with his face and in that moment he looks _beautiful_. Enjolras stares at him for a moment, before his gaze flickers away and he looks around Grantaire’s living room. An old television set is playing something, a woman singing on the screen. He glances at it briefly, before doing a double take as he recognizes it.

“Is that… _Jesus Christ Superstar_?”

“What?”

“You didn’t strike me as someone who would watch that.”

“It’s a fucking classic. Carl Anderson's voice is practically orgasmic. Anyway, let me get to know you. I’ve got all night.”

Enjolras checks his phone, “Unfortunately I don’t. I’d best be off home, before my housemates actually throw a fit and call the police.”

Grantaire’s smile only falters a little bit, “Guess I’ll see you down at the store then.”

“I guess so,” Enjolras turns to leave, but stops. “For the record, I looked it up. I could still make a formal complaint, because you were drunk and there was visible proof.”

“Get out of here, Apollo.”

 

* * *

 

Grantaire lies down on the mattress he had once attempted to call a bed, but failed, and thinks about Enjolras.

He can’t sleep, and eventually decides to shoot him off a text.

 **R:** did u get back safely?  
 **Apollo:** Yes I did, thank you.  
 **R:** u shud b careful. with a face like urs ur gonna get jumped one day  
 **Apollo:** I am well aware of that. Goodnight.

Grantaire tosses the phone into a corner, gets up and rummages for his paints, thrown haphazardly around the room from the last time he’d attempted to paint, and angrily tossed the entire canvas out the window in a rage.

He picks his way downstairs, past the sprawled out figure of someone in the lobby, and outside into the cold air.

He stops at a clear patch of wall, picks up the red, and starts to paint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to anyone who can guess what song from JCS was playing on the television, and its significance.
> 
> Thank you for reading/Merci de lire.
> 
> For fic notes, drabbles, questions and possible spin offs, hit me up at [tumblr](http://combeferresque.tumblr.com).


	2. in the entrails of the animals, their blood running through

Grantaire is twenty-three; a university drop-out with half a completed undergraduate degree in Art, an enormous collection of sometimes-used paints, one unused canvas he hadn’t brought upon himself to use yet, an old laundry basket full of clothes that serves as this closet, a dying laptop, a phone, two sets of plates and cutlery, and a duffel bag.

That is pretty much all he owns. Éponine, bless her soul, lets him borrow things as he needs them, but Grantaire always feels guilty doing so because Éponine is also struggling financially, attempting to prove to her parents that she can make it on her own and get her degree in Sociology, whilst simultaneously working two jobs and sending money to her two younger siblings back home.

Grantaire had met her when she applied at the corner store, desperate for any work at all.

He understands desperation. It was a look he often wore. He saw Éponine, saw her scuffed sneakers and her messy, unwashed hair, and made sure his manager saw her resumé that evening.

Grantaire makes sure Éponine has a place to stay when Montparnasse was being violent. In return, Éponine looks after Grantaire, buys him alcohol when he can’t bring himself to face the day, forces water down his throat and gives him aspirin.

It had occurred to Grantaire once that they were in an unhealthy co-dependent relationship that somehow managed to keep them both alive and sane. Well, semi-sane. He found himself asking about her past, painting small cartoony pictures so she could send them to her brother Gavroche, inquiring after Azelma’s health. He began to know all about her life, without having ever met her family.

And that’s why, when Éponine burst into his apartment one morning in a flood of tears, Grantaire knew without having to be told: Azelma had finally lost her battle with cancer.

He told Éponine to take the day off work and lie down and cry and take from his cache of whiskey if she needed, and called the manager to explain, informing him that he would take her shift as well as his own.

By the time he was nearing the end of his shift, that Friday night, he was emotionally drained and exhausted.

And that’s when he sees him for the first time.

 

* * *

 

It's nearing 5pm when Enjolras starts awake from a nap, acutely aware of the stifling heat in the room and his jeans sticking uncomfortably to his skin.

He stumbles to the door, groggy and half awake, and collides straight with Courfeyrac, who is coming out of Combeferre’s bedroom.

“Hello, Enjolras. Good nap?”

“Why is there Chinese opera coming from the kitchen?”

“Oh, that's just Jehan.”

“Why is Jehan listening to Chinese opera in our kitchen?”

“Beats me man, I don't understand him on a good day.”

“Actually, what are you both doing in our apartment?”

“Marius invited himself over, and we tagged along.”

“What the hell,” says Enjolras, straightening his rumpled jacket and running a hand through his hair, “is nothing sacred anymore-”

And there is Jehan, sitting at the kitchen table, laptop open and blaring what is unmistakably the Mandarin language, with Marius sitting on the couch, hands clasped tightly around a mug of steaming hot tea, Combeferre sitting beside him, attempting to offer advice.

“What on earth is going on?” asks Enjolras, and Marius looks up at him with sad eyes that could rival Puss in Boots.

“Cosette finally told him that it was time to meet the parents,” supplies Courfeyrac, “well, parent, since apparently Cosette only has a father, and he’s not even her real father, because she’s adopted, but anyways, he went out to pick her up except when he got there her dad was having one hell of a shouting match with a cop, and I’m not even sure how it happened, but somehow Cosette managed to sock him in the jaw and apparently all hell broke loose. And then Marius did a runner.”

“You… just left?” asks Enjolras incredulously.

“I panicked!” wails Marius, and sends half the mug of tea onto the carpet. Combeferre looks down at it mournfully, before sighing and getting up to find a wet cloth, “I panicked and ran home and now I feel awful because I left her and her dad with the police and her father probably thinks I’m a coward!”

“You are a coward,” says Jehan from the table. “It’s alright, we all accept you anyway. But you should probably call her.”

“Why is it _always_ our apartment?” breathes Enjolras to the ceiling, but is cut off by what is unmistakably Ke$ha’s _Dirty Love_ coming from the bathroom. There is a pause, where the only sound is Combeferre scrubbing at the carpet, before they hear the toilet flushing and Feuilly emerges.

“Hi Enjolras.”

“How many more of you are there??” he demands, “and why is _that_ your ringtone?”

Feuilly looks down at his phone, as if it can tell him the answer. “You know, I vaguely remember being drunk one night and Bahorel changing it as a joke. But hey, the song’s catchy. So I don’t mind. Also, Bahorel, Bossuet and Joly are coming over with Musichetta. So it’ll be a full house.”

“Oh, and I have another friend coming,” supplies Marius unhelpfully.

“ _Can someone tell me what is going on?”_ says Enjolras firmly.

“You… forgot we had a party night planned? With drinks and Risk and other thrilling board games?” says Courfeyrac slowly.

Enjolras closes his eyes.

“I forgot.”

“Of course you did,” says Combeferre, who is staring at the now-stain on the carpet and appears to be debating whether or not to punch Marius in the face.

“I was too busy worrying over finals, you can’t expect me to remember everytime you lot plan a party.”

“Too busy trying to save the world,” laughs Feuilly, before checking his phone again, “oh, they’re on the stairs.”

He opens the door to reveal Joly and Bossuet holding a multitude of plastic bags from which the smell of Chinese takeaway radiates, Bahorel, who has several bottles in his hand and a large grin, and Musichetta, who looks lovely, her dark hair woven with flowers. Jehan scrambles off his chair and goes to kiss her on both cheeks, and Bahorel makes his way over to the kitchen counters to deposit his bottles.

“When’s Éponine coming?” asks Joly to Marius.

Enjolras’ head snaps up, “Éponine?”

“Yes, she’s a friend of mine,” replies Marius. “Met in our Sociology 101 class.”

“I know her,” says Enjolras, “well, sort of.”

There is a sharp rapping at the door.

“That’s probably her,” murmurs Combeferre, who swings open the door to reveal Éponine, dressed in extremely skinny black jeans and a tight red top. Her hair iss curled slightly at the ends, and her makeup iss masterfully applied. Combeferre appears to freeze for a moment, before: “You… must be Éponine. Hi.”

She looks at him briefly, before smirking and bounding into the room, “Hi Marius!”

Marius smiles at her briefly, and her face lights up, before Courfeyrac says loudly, “and who is this charming young man you’ve brought with you?”

Éponine whirls around and reaches back into the doorway to pull someone in. “This is Grantaire. I figured he needed a night out that didn’t involve creepy strangers in a bar. Well, I mean, technically you’re all strangers except for Marius, but yeah.”

“The only creepy person here is Courfeyrac,” laughs Bahorel, before he stops and looks at Enjolras.

“Yo man, you alright?”

Enjolras and Grantaire are staring at each other. Well, staring is a bit of an understatement. Bahorel could have sworn they are eye-fucking each other.

“Right!” He announces brightly, “Who wants drinks?”

 

* * *

 

Enjolras settles himself down on the floor, and pulls a couple of old boardgame boxes towards him.

“Who’s up for a game?”

Grantaire settles himself down crossed-legged opposite him, a glass of wine already in his hand. Enjolras tries not to smile.

“What do you have?”

“Uh… Monopoly, Risk, Clue, Chess, Nine Men’s Morris…”

“Nine Men’s Morris is a fucking awful game!” calls Courfeyrac from where he is trying, and failing, to chat up Éponine at the kitchen counter, “tried it out in Assassin’s Creed III. Fucking thing.”

Grantaire snorts, and carefully moves that box out of the way, “not that one then. What about… oh hey, what’s this? _Settlers of Catan_. And the expansions too? Great.”

Jehan elbows his way through Joly and Musichetta and sits himself down next to Enjolras, “if we’re playing Settlers, I’m playing too.”

“So am I,” says Marius, who is quickly joined by Éponine, leaving a rather annoyed Courfeyrac standing alone with the fruit bowl and a six pack of cheap beer.

Musichetta gives Bossuet a quick peck on the cheek, and goes to join the rapidly growing crowd on the floor.

Enjolras ignores Grantaire, who is staring at him. “'Ferre, you playing?”

“I’ll pass,” he calls back, from where he is sitting at the table with Feuilly and Bahorel, “we’ve got a good game of poker going here. Besides, there’s no point in playing Settlers of Catan with you. You always win.”

“Is that true?” smirks Grantaire, placing his glass of wine down on the floor carefully where it won’t be knocked over, “I’d like to see this.”

Enjolras leans forward over where Marius and Jehan are placing disks on the carpet, “Oh, I always win. Nobody’s managed to beat me yet.”

“Yet,” says Grantaire, and smiles that toothy smile of his.

 

* * *

 

“Oh goddammit,” sighs Marius, as Jehan once again rolls a five, “I have five billion sheep and nothing useful.”

“You’re telling me,” snorts Éponine, “All I’ve got are bloody bricks.”

“Want to donate some to me, darling?” asks Musichetta, who is doing rather well.

“Sure,” says Éponine, “if you have any lumber.”

“Hey, you’re not allowed to trade right now,” interrupts Enjolras, who is acting as banker, “...and, I get the award for the longest road.”

“Aw shit,” says Jehan, who is now blocked off from the coast. Enjolras grins, and raises an eyebrow at Grantaire, who doesn’t appear to be doing so well.

Grantaire smirks, “just you wait Apollo. I’ll trounce your ass.”

“Now, now boys, play fair,” says Musichetta, as she gets up to get another drink. “Anyone for a cup of tea?”

“Rooibos if they have it,” says Jehan, “if not, Green.”

“Oh, you’re a man after my own heart,” smiles Musichetta, oblivious of the two pairs of eyes that turn sharply to glare at Jehan, who is fiddling with his cards and blushing, and deliberately not looking up.

“Yer a damn cheat, I swear!” shouts Bahorel from the table, where himself, along with Combeferre, Feuilly and Courfeyrac are sitting, having a rather loud game of poker. Enjolras can hardly see their faces for the smoke that surrounds them. “You’ve won every hand so far!”

“Feuilly, if you’re going to smoke in my house, at least open a window,” Enjolras calls irritably. “Or put the damn thing out.”

“Okay,” says Feuilly, and keeps on smoking.

“I’m not cheating, Bahorel,” says Combeferre calmly, poker face firmly set. “You’re just really bad at poker.”

“I can’t do this stoic business,” grumbles Courfeyrac, who is losing by far, “this game is ridiculous. Oh for fuck’s sake, this hand is stupid.”

“You’re not supposed to announce that,” says Bahorel, who has empty shot glasses littering his side of the table.

The game goes on for a few more minutes, before Feuilly grins in triumph.

“I do believe I have a Full House,” he smiles, cigarette hanging between his lips, “beat that, Combeferre.”

Combeferre looks at him for a moment, before carefully turning over his hand. “Royal Flush.”

They all lean in for a moment, before Feuilly sighs and Bahorel flips the table.

 

* * *

 

“Just how on earth did Grantaire suddenly start winning?” demands Éponine, who is flushed with alcohol and leaning woozily on Marius’ shoulder.

Grantaire is smiling broadly, “I’m good at board games.”

“Well, you’ve not beaten Enjolras yet,” says Musichetta, who has calmly resigned herself to losing gracefully and is sipping tea with Jehan.

“And he won’t,” replies Enjolras firmly.

“I’m sensing you have a competitive streak, my dear Apollo,” says Grantaire, as he reaches over and places another road on the board.

“No I don’t,” says Enjolras quickly, and everyone looks at him.

“Bullshit,” announces Éponine, “I haven’t known you for that long and even I can tell you’d be a sore loser.”

Enjolras scowls, his pretty features screwing up in frustration as he watches Grantaire collect more cards. It's an interesting expression on him, Grantaire thinks. One he’d like to paint one day.

“Wait, did Grantaire just win?” asks Marius, who is staring at the board.

Jehan stops sipping, “I think he did.”

Grantaire leans back against the couch smugly, flashing Enjolras a shit-eating grin, “Looks like your winning streak’s been broken, Achilles. The mighty hero taken down by the arrow loosed from the bow of Paris, prince of Troy.”

Enjolras ignores the reference and glares down at the board, “I want a rematch.”

“Definitely not,” says Musichetta, hauling herself up on her feet, “I am not playing again.”

“Chess then,” says Enjolras, “come on Grantaire, you know you want to.”

Grantaire’s face is the picture of smug victory, and Enjolras wants to slap it off. “Sorry Enjolras, I think I’ve had enough of board games. Where are Bossuet and Joly?”

“Last time I saw them they went into Joly’s bedroom,” frowns Feuilly, who turns to stare at the door, “I don’t even want to know what they’re doing in there.”

Everyone ‘ew’s, before Jehan slaps Feuilly around the head lightly and goes to the door, opens it with a flourish, and steps inside.

Courfeyrac lunges forward to pull him back, but before he can get there Jehan steps back out, laughing.

“They’re putting on _The Muppets Treasure Island,_ ” he says.

Everyone practically rushes to Joly’s bedroom, and Combeferre grabs a large bag of chips on the way, leaving Grantaire and Enjolras standing rather awkwardly over the remains of the game.

“Good game,” Enjolras murmurs.

“Sorry for making you look a bit dumb,” replies Grantaire.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Enjolras says quickly, “it’s just… no one’s ever beaten me at that game before. It’s a bit new.”

“Just because I work at a convenience store doesn’t mean I’m stupid,” snaps Grantaire, folding his arms.

Enjolras shoots him a look, “that’s not what I meant at all, and you know it.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes, “whatever, Apollo.”

“Why do you keep referring to me as that?”

Grantaire shrugs, “Dunno. Just like doing it.” Though he looks uncomfortable, and Enjolras is about to press the matter further when they hear the sound of music playing and Courfeyrac pokes his head out of Joly’s bedroom door.

“Yo, we’re starting the movie and there’s still a bit of space on the floor. You guys coming?”

Grantaire turns to Enjolras with a quirked eyebrow, “you up for it?”

Enjolras laughs, “Grown adults watching children’s films? Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Well, it’s more fun than watching you constantly arguing over human rights during your Political Science lectures,” snorts Courfeyrac, and disappears back through the door.

“Human rights?” asks Grantaire.

Enjolras runs a hand through his hair, “I’m a… bit avid on social justice issues. So are all of us, actually. I’m not the only one.”

“Oh,” says Grantaire. “So you do the whole protest marches and passing out leaflets sort of thing?”

“Yeah.”

“S’all a bit dumb to me,” says Grantaire, and Enjolras starts, “nothing a bunch of students do is really gonna change society, but I guess it’s admirable anyway.”

Enjolras scowls. “You’re a sit-back-and-let-injustice-happen sort of person then?”

“Yep,” replies Grantaire cheerfully, “and it hasn’t failed me so far. Injustice is always going to exist, no matter how hard you ‘campaign’ and hand out leaflets to uninterested civilians. Better to accept it rather than spend a life fighting for a doomed cause.”

Enjolras turns on Grantaire and seizes his elbow, “That’s pessimistic and ridiculous.”

“So is this world,” says Grantaire, pulling his arm back from Enjolras’ grasp and making his way rather roughly over to Joly’s bedroom door.

Enjolras follows, half angry at Grantaire for his cynicism, half angry at himself.

They spend the duration of the movie sitting on opposite sides of the room, ignoring everyone else’s quizzical looks, and even “Cabin Fever” can’t wipe the scowl from Enjolras’ face, or the frown from Grantaire’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because who doesn't love the Muppets Treasure Island?
> 
> I swear there will be actual plot next time. After I struggle myself through finals.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading/Merci de lire.
> 
> For fic notes, drabbles, questions and possible spin offs, hit me up at [tumblr](http://combeferresque.tumblr.com).


	3. but in order to get to the heart, i think sometimes you have to cut through

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 3a.m and I should be asleep but I have just come back from my yearly Easter rewatch of Jesus Christ Superstar and my beautiful friend Lian has just gifted me [hilarious fic of the amis going to an amusement park](http://archiveofourown.org/works/742769). So have this piece of angst I humbly offer you, and Happy Easter to those to celebrate it.

They remain silent between each other for a while, and Enjolras makes sure to send Courfeyrac down (bribed with cash) whenever he wants something.

Grantaire looks up hopefully each time the door swings open, and Courfeyrac almost feels saddened by it all.

 **Courfeyrac:** look idk what hppnd between u 2 bc at the party u were both fine + getting 2 kno each other well soudain vous n'étiez pas  
 **Enjolras:** I don’t want to talk about it. It was a stupid argument anyway. It wasn’t even an argument.  
 **Enjolras:** …Wait why do you always text in half French, half English?  
 **Courfeyrac:** gotta keep in practice anyway then why r u avoiding him je pense que tu l'aime mais t'as peur

 

* * *

 

It is a quiet evening, and Enjolras stares down at his phone. He shivers with the cold breeze coming from the window, tosses the phone down on his bedcover, and goes to close it.

When he looks back, there's a new text.

 **Grantaire:** just wanted to say sorry about the party. i was a bit mean abt what i said.  
 **Enjolras:** Yeah, same. Uh, do you want to get coffee with me sometime this week? There’s a good place near Feuilly’s.  
 **Grantaire:** sure what time (:  
 **Enjolras:** The group and I are working on details of our next rally until about 1pm on Saturday but after that I should be free.  
 **Grantaire:** dude, the semester is over. ur still working?  
 **Enjolras:** This is what we do in our spare time.  
 **Grantaire:** ur all nutcases. ok, 1 is good with me.

The place Enjolras has chosen is a spot Prouvaire had found fairly soon after they had moved. It is small but often busy, and as soon as one opens the door, the rich scent of chai and spices comes wafting through the air.

Grantaire, in baggy jeans and a knitted beanie, lookes like he fits in to the atmosphere perfectly. Enjolras looks down at his own leather and denim assemble, ridiculously tight and overly colourful (thanks to Courfeyrac, who had aided on several wardrobe choices for Enjolras’ “date” despite the fact it was not a _date)_ and sighs a little.

“Nice place,” says Grantaire, as he studies an abstract on the wall.

“It is,” murmurs Enjolras, taking a tentative sip of his tea and hissing as he burns his tongue. Grantaire snickers quietly.

“Here you go sir, one chai tea,” says the waitress who appears at Grantaire’s shoulder, carefully placing a steaming mug down on the table and flashing him a smile as she leaves. Grantaire ignores her.

“I hate it when they do that.”

“Do what?” asks Enjolras, who is rubbing his burnt tongue against the edge of his teeth.

“Call them chai teas. Chai means tea, so what they’re really saying is ‘tea tea’. Or rather, ‘hello I am an idiot.’”

Enjolras snorts.

“So, are we here to finally continue our conversation regarding the work ethics of shitty run-down convenience stores and their long-suffering employees?” asks Grantaire, “or can we just skip that part and get to the part where I ask stuff about you and we actually get to know each other properly.”

“Ask away,” replies Enjolras.

“Alright, tell me about yourself. How did you all end up here in this glorious part of the world?”

“Well,” begins Enjolras, carefully extracting the tea bag from his cup with the tips of his fingers and depositing it on the wooden surface of the table, grimacing as it leaves a small puddle, “I was born in Paris. I’m double majoring in Political Science and Classics at the university. I live with Combeferre and Joly, and I’ve known Combeferre and Courfeyrac the longest. That’s uh, that’s all really.”

“Really,” says Grantaire, sitting back in his chair. “Well you’ve just told me a great deal about yourself and absolutely nothing at all.”

“What?”

“I said ‘Tell me about yourself’. What do you like? What are your hopes and dreams? How do you take your coffee? What’s your favourite time of day? Colour?—wait that’s a dumb one, anyone can see it’s red—”

Enjolras stops him. And takes a deep breath.

“I want to expose the indignities of the system,” he begins again, slowly. “I organised several rallies with my friends back in France, and I’m hoping to continue that here. I nearly got arrested once. I uh… I want to see a future where no one is put at a disadvantage because of their skin colour or gender or sexuality or financial status. I hate the injustice I see around me, and I feel privileged that I have close friends who feel the same as I do, although sometimes I get frustrated because I feel like they’re more words than action, and it’s actually only myself who is willing to go out into this world and bring about change. I don’t drink coffee unless I need the caffeine; I prefer tea. I like late mornings, and you’re right, my favourite colour is red.” He breaks off, aware that he has been going on a lot, and glances at Grantaire apologetically. “My apologies. I haven’t let you speak at all.”

Grantaire however, hasn’t seemed to notice. He's staring intently into his chai, and won’t look into Enjolras’ eyes.

“…That’s a beautiful dream,” he says eventually, in a low voice. “But it’s incredibly naïve. What do you really hope to achieve? How old are you even?”

“I’m twenty-two,” Enjolras replies, “not that my age should have anything to do with it.”

“It shouldn’t, but it does,” interrupts Grantaire. “You have a beautiful dream, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes you have to face reality. And the reality is that you’re a rich young white male who’s only going to be seen and ridiculed by the vast majority of people you claim to help. That’s reality.”

“What made you such a cynic?” asks Enjolras, and now he could feel his blood pressure rising almost imperceptibly. “You see the problems of this world, you see oppression same as I do, but what do you do? Nothing. If you’re content to sit back and let it all go by then in fact you’re no better than the oppressors themselves.”

“Oh that’s rich,” sniffs Grantaire. The people sitting in the chairs around them have started to stare and whisper quietly, and the air around them feels colder. “I am not going to sit here and be lectured on injustice. You don’t actually know anything about me, and from what I’ve seen of you, you don’t really understand anything you fight for.”

“God. Well maybe I don’t _want_ to learn more about you,” sneers Enjolras, whose face now resembles that of cold fury, Apollo raising an arm to smite down a hapless mortal. He stands up and pushes his chair back roughly. “Good day Grantaire. Our friendship was nice while it lasted.”

And he leaves, ignoring the incredulous stares of the other customers.

“Um,” says the waitress, creeping towards the table nervously, “will you be paying for your… friend’s drink then?”

Grantaire looks down at Enjolras’ half-finished mug of tea.

“That bastard.”

 

* * *

 

Enjolras stalks down to the corner shop, praying that Grantaire won’t be working today. He's in no mood to argue anymore, now that Grantaire is obviously a lost cause who's not really worth his time. All he wants is some more chamomile for the week, since Joly had gone into a panic the night before about stomach viruses and had finished off their entire supply.

He pushese open the door, sees Grantaire at the counter, and turns to leave again.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” comes Grantaire’s low voice. Enjolras stops halfway in the doorway, and slowly turns around. Grantaire leaps over the counter and makes his way over.

“I don’t really have anything to say to you today, Grantaire. Good day.”

“Is this how we’re going to play it then? We argue over something trivial, and now you’re acting like a five year old who can’t look me in the eye?”

Enjolras stares straight into Grantaire’s blue eyes: “Yes. And it wasn’t trivial.”

He sniffs back. “Well, then you’re a bigger prat than I thought. Can’t believe I thought about-” he suddenly stops talking, as if his mouth had run away with him, and looks awkward.

“Thought about what?” demands Enjolras.

“None of your business.”

“Tell me.”

“You don’t own me, Enjolras. You can’t demand things from me.”

Enjolras throws his hands up in frustration, and pushes past Grantaire out the door.

“Wait!” calls Grantaire, but Enjolras keeps walking. “Fine then!” he shouts after him, “Be a goddamn child! At least I’m not delusional!”

Enjolras stops. There is a deathly silence.

“Better a child than someone who doesn’t believe in anything at all,” he hisses, finally. “ _You_ , Grantaire. You are incapable of doing anything. Maybe that’s why you live in a dump. Maybe that’s why you live your life in drink. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that habit of yours. Or any of us, really. It’s so goddamn obvious. …Do you even go to school?”

“No,” replies Grantaire, feeling numb.

“Well, here’s some advice, Grantaire,” says Enjolras harshly, and now he becomes aware of his voice slowly rising in volume, “grow up, and sort out your goddamn life.”

“Wow,” says Grantaire, “and here I was, thinking we might have been friends. You were certainly nice at the start. What a good actor you are, Enjolras. You know what? You should have taken Theatre with Courfeyrac. Suits you better.”

Enjolras walks away.

 

* * *

 

Grantaire makes his way home angrily, stalking past the hookers hanging around on street corners and the drunks who approach him, smiles loose and hazy.

“Hey,” one of them purrs, blocking his path, “fancy a good time babe?”

Grantaire pushes past them and into the apartment complex. He runs up the stairs to his flat, grabbing the can of black paint, and runs back downstairs again.

He walks over to the portrait he had done of Enjolras in red. He studies it for a while, the curls he had drawn for the hair, the line of his jaw, the proud curve of his mouth.

It's a good likeness, he decides, And one of his best works so far.

Grantaire lifts the can and sprays it over, ignoring the prickling of tears at the corners of his eyes. He punches the brick of the wall beside him, and his knuckles come back bloody.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you all chase me down with pitchforks, in the words ( lyrics) of The Bravery, This Is Not The End. Of Enjolras and Grantaire's story, at least. But this is where it ends for now.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading/Merci de lire.
> 
> For fic notes, drabbles, questions and possible spin offs, hit me up at [tumblr](http://combeferresque.tumblr.com).


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